


All morning

by Anonymous



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: (it's not the kind of dirty talk you can jerk off to), Anal Fingering, Dirty Talk, Kink Negotiation, Kneeling, M/M, Masturbation, Mentions of breathplay/praise kink/public sex fantasies, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:41:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28074135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Laurent suggests. Auguste considers.
Relationships: Auguste/Laurent (Captive Prince)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 44
Collections: Anonymous





	All morning

♚

Laurent wakes up first. He wiggles his toes and rubs his eyes with the back of his hand, but otherwise stays put. Auguste is draped around him like a second blanket, breathing in and out against Laurent's nape. 

They don't have any meetings today, and it's early enough that the sunlight coming through the open window feels nice instead of stifling.

After only a couple of minutes, the rhythm of Auguste's breathing changes, becoming softer. He doesn't talk at first, pressing close-mouthed kisses to Laurent's skin, all along the curve of his neck.

"Morning," Auguste says, a smile in his voice.

"Hello," Laurent says.

"How long have you been awake?"

"Just a few minutes." Laurent turns to face him. "You were smothering me."

Auguste leans in, his stubble burning Laurent's skin as they kiss. "Was I?" he asks against Laurent's lips. "I think you're lying. You seemed pretty content to lie here with me."

"Under you."

Auguste kisses the corner of his mouth, the small dimple on his chin, the edge of his jaw. The farther away he moves from Laurent's mouth, the more irritated Laurent becomes.

"Auguste."

"Yes?"

"Don't play with me."

Auguste pulls back and gives him a look. "I'm not. We have all morning."

That pleases Laurent, the reminder that Auguste won’t leave their bed in a hurry like he does every morning, and so he curls closer. He doesn’t try to kiss Auguste right away, knowing his brother likes the tease of it, the stretch. Laurent likes it too, with Auguste.

“Have you rested enough?” Laurent asks. His hand is carefully splayed on Auguste’s chest, his pinky so close to Auguste’s right nipple Laurent’s whole hand throbs. “Or will you fall asleep on me again?”

Auguste laughs. The twinkle of his eyes makes Laurent shudder.  _ In you _ , Laurent imagines him thinking. It’s what happened last night. “I had a long day, and if I recall correctly, you fell asleep on me too.”

“I dozed off. Maybe.”

“You were drooling.”

Laurent flushes. “You were snoring.”

Auguste’s hand meets Laurent’s hip under the sheets. It takes everything in Laurent not to squirm, for he wants that hand to touch other places, to stop teasing. But just when the feel of Auguste’s fingertips on his skin becomes unbearable, Auguste moves his hand away, using it to rub small circles on Laurent’s lower back.

Laurent arches his back as he presses his forehead to Auguste’s shoulder. The slight shift does not make Auguste take pity on him, his hand moving in the wrong direction, coming to a stop on Laurent’s shoulder blades instead of dipping lower.

“What do you want to do today?” Auguste touches the three moles on Laurent’s back, connecting them. “Shall we go back to sleep?”

Laurent licks dry lips. “No.”

“Hmm. Eat breakfast, then?”

“No, I want—” Laurent begins, and pauses. What does he want to do today? It’s always different when Auguste makes him ask for it, mainly because Auguste has never said no to him. But Laurent has never asked for anything outrageous. “I want to talk,” he says after a while, “and then we can— _ you _ can do things.”

Auguste laughs again. “Must I always do the hard work?”

“My thighs hurt,” Laurent says. 

Auguste touches his legs then, kneading the soft muscles. “What do you want to talk about?”

Laurent is careful to keep his head down. “Things.”

“Such as?”

“What I want.”

“I thought you wanted to talk,” Auguste says. He tries to pull away, but Laurent does not let him. “Laurent?”

“Last week,” Laurent says, feeling his face grow hot, “you said we could soak together. In the baths.”

“In the baths,” Auguste echoes. He sounds amused. “Yes, that is where one typically soaks.”

“You’re being annoying.”

Auguste strokes the inside of Laurent’s right thigh. “We’ve bathed together before. Why are you asking now?”

“I’d like to try something,” Laurent says. Then, for emphasis: “Something different.”

For the first time since he woke up, Auguste is silent.

Laurent’s heart is in his throat, trying to climb its way out of his body. “I want you to hold my head.”

Almost instantly, Auguste’s hands are in his hair. The quickness of the gesture makes Laurent laugh. That, and his nerves.

“No,” Laurent says in a tight voice. “I meant that I want to be—held down.” He swallows, reminds himself this is Auguste, and adds, “Under the water.”

Auguste begins to pull away again, and this time Laurent lets him. His eyes are very blue and red-rimmed with sleep, but still kind. “For how long?”

“Until I start to fade,” Laurent says. “Maybe more.”

“No,” Auguste says, and Laurent’s stomach plummets. But then Auguste is touching his face, running his thumb over Laurent’s overheated cheek. He kisses the tip of Laurent’s nose before saying, “No more than that. I don’t want you swallowing water or breathing it. I don’t want you to go limp.”

“Oh,” Laurent says. He had not considered that Auguste might agree to any of it, and now that he has Laurent doesn’t know what to say. “Does that mean that you’ll do it?”

“It means I’ll try,” Auguste says, and it’s clear he’s trying not to frown. “Is there anything else you’d, er, like to do? In the baths?”

Laurent frowns. “Did you understand what I just asked you?”

“Yes. You want me to hold your head under the water when we’re bathing.”

“No, I want you to do it while we’re—” Laurent purses his mouth. The word is inevitable: “Fucking.”

“Oh.”

“You don’t want to,” Laurent says flatly.

“That’s not it,” Auguste says. He leans in to kiss Laurent, but Laurent moves away at the last second. “That’s not it at all, Laurent. I just want—why do  _ you _ want to do it?”

Laurent lies on his back, eyes on the ceiling. “Because I do.”

“How did you come up with the idea?”

“In a dream,” Laurent says. “It just came to me.”

Auguste tilts Laurent’s head to the side so he can see his face. “Why are you lying?”

“It doesn’t matter. You don’t want to do it.”

“I never said that. I said I don’t want to hurt you, which is different.”

Laurent looks up at the ceiling again. After a slight pause, he says, “But you wouldn’t. Hurt me, I mean. And even if you did, it wouldn’t be real, because I’d want you to. I want you to hold me down like a—a—” He stops, frustrated. It shouldn’t be this hard. “Like a pet,” he settles for.

“So that’s how you came up with this.”

“No, I—”

“You saw Audin and his pet,” Auguste says. “I’ve seen them too, Laurent. They’re a bit… hard to ignore.”

“Oh.”

Auguste starts to play with the peach fuzz on Laurent’s stomach. “Were they in the baths?”

Laurent tries not to squirm or buck his hips. “Yes. Audin had to drag his pet out of the water when they were done. He carried him out and dried him down with a towel. I... liked it.”

“You liked watching them,” Auguste says, so carefully it makes Laurent want to roll his eyes. “It would feel different if that was you being drowned.”

“Isn’t that the point?”

Auguste ignores that. “I’ve held you down before.”

“On accident. And it was different because there wasn’t—there was no water. You can’t drown me in a bed.”

“I could have smothered you,” Auguste says. His face contorts, a flash of something dark that’s gone in a second. “You still haven’t explained what you liked about it. I know you don’t enjoy pain, so that can’t be it.”

Laurent wants to argue. He thinks there’s a part of him that would like anything if it was Auguste he was doing it with, but the thought is too ridiculous to be said out loud. He doesn’t want Auguste to get the wrong impression.

Instead, Laurent says, “I liked the struggle.”

“There can be struggle anywhere, not just in the baths.”

“Yes, but it was different. He could have drowned, and they both knew it. When the pet struggled, it felt—real.”

Now Auguste is frowning. “Do you want it to be real? Between us?”

“You don’t understand. It’s about knowing you could do it if you wanted to.”

“Knowing I could hurt you,” Auguste says slowly, “is what you’d like about it.”

Now that it’s out in the open, Laurent feels like he can breathe a little easier. He rolls over on his side and touches Auguste’s jaw. “But you wouldn’t hurt me. See? It’d be fun.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You do. You just don’t want to do it.”

Auguste nuzzles into Laurent’s palm, plants a kiss at its center. He sounds apologetic when he says, “I could never hold you down long enough for it to feel real, Laurent.”

Laurent closes his eyes against the annoyance he feels. It was hard enough for Auguste to do this—give in, let Laurent into his bed, fuck him without apologizing at every turn—and so Laurent had been expecting Auguste’s hesitancy to make a return for this. He just can’t help the disappointment he feels at the thought of a common pet getting what he can’t have.

“All right,” Laurent says, eyes opening. Sulking would only make Auguste feel guiltier. “We’ll just soak then.”

“What else did you want to try?”

Laurent considers not telling him. He’s thought of this for weeks, never with the intention of bringing it up. He thought of it on the nights Auguste didn’t come to bed, too busy answering letters and entertaining visiting lords. He thought of it with a hand between his legs. 

“Kneeling,” Laurent says, “and if you—sometimes I’d crawl. But only sometimes,” he hurries to add. His hands are getting damp with sweat. “If you didn’t want me to, I wouldn’t do it.”

Auguste touches his kneecap, runs a thumb over the bones there, pressing down slightly. “Only slaves kneel. We’re equals. Do you think that is what I want from you?”

“We’re not equals.”

Auguste looks hurt by his words. “Laurent, you’re my brother.”

“You’re the king,” Laurent says. “No one is your equal.”

“What is this really about? You’ve never liked being told what to do, not even by me. Why would you want it now, in bed?”

Laurent’s head throbs with shame. “Forget about it,” he says as he sits up, eyes burning. “Let’s eat breakfast and—”

Auguste pulls him back down by the elbow. He kisses Laurent on the mouth, slow enough that by the end of it Laurent isn’t really ashamed anymore, not even frustrated. Auguste pulls back when Laurent’s lips start to part.

“Tell me,” Auguste says, thumbing a tear away from Laurent’s cheek. “Please.”

Laurent curls up closer. To help himself relax, he starts circling Auguste’s nipple with his thumb, wide circles that start closing in as the seconds go by. “It wouldn’t be in our bed,” he says, not surprised that his voice is shaky, “and it wouldn’t be all the time. Just… when I needed you to.”

Auguste says nothing, which Laurent knows is a struggle for him.

“It’d help me focus,” Laurent goes on. “The way sparring feels good for you and makes you less jittery. I’d do it because you tell me to.”

“You never do what I tell you.”

“I said I’d do it sometimes, not always. I’m not asking you to control my every move, Auguste.”

Auguste’s forehead wrinkles. “But why kneeling and crawling? Why can’t I tell you to eat better, or go riding with me, or—”

“I don’t know.”

“There must be a reason why you suggested those things first.”

Laurent may as well just say it. “Pets kneel.” Auguste’s expression says:  _ But you’re not a pet.  _ “They get told they’re… good. That they’ve done well. And I wouldn’t be doing—I’d be kneeling beside you when you’re writing or reading letters. It wouldn’t be just about your pleasure.”

Auguste touches Laurent’s eyelashes, his closed eyelids. “Pets wear paint, too.”

Something hot uncoils in Laurent’s stomach. “I’d do it. Anything. I’d wear…” He pauses, trying not to pant. “I’d let you pierce—”

“No,” Auguste says firmly. “None of that. Only paint, Laurent.”

_ It’s better than nothing _ , Laurent thinks. “Fine.”

They’re both silent for a moment until Auguste says, “Would you wear silk? For me.”

“A silk shirt?”

Auguste flushes, cheeks going bright red. “No, I meant…” He clears his throat. The color subsides. “Plain silk, just draped around you.”

“Like a cloak.”

“No. Like a dress of sorts.” Auguste runs a finger across Laurent’s soft cock, making him shiver. “Only enough to cover some bits of skin.”

A dress. Laurent thinks about it for a moment and frowns. Before him, Auguste had only ever had eyes for women. With other men, he used to talk about the softness of their breasts and the width of their hips. He’d often turn around, discreetly, when a lady walked past him in the gardens. It makes Laurent wonder.

“I’m not a girl,” Laurent says.

Auguste blinks at him, twice. “I’ve noticed.”

“Does it bother you?” 

“Of course not. I like you the way you are. Have I given you the impression that I don’t?” Auguste doesn’t give him time to answer. “I don’t want you in a dress because I want you to be a girl. I thought it’d be something you’d like.”

Laurent ignores his rambling. “Would you like me in a dress?”

“Yes, but—”

“Then I’ll do it. I like it too.”

Auguste’s eyes don’t flicker away from his. “But how do I know you mean that? How do I know you’re not saying it because you think it’s what I want to hear?”

“Don’t you trust me to speak my mind? You were the one who suggested I dress up because you thought I might like it. Maybe you’re the one who can’t be trusted to be—”

“Laurent,” Auguste says. “Breathe.”

Laurent can’t. “Did you say yes to—to holding me down only because I wanted you to?”

It takes Auguste a while to answer. He spends that pause in their conversation pushing the hair out of Laurent’s eyes, stroking his knee. “I’m simply trying to understand what you could find pleasurable in this. You said it’d help you focus? Since when do you need help with that? You’re always so…” Auguste’s mouth turns into a line, pink and white at the same time. “Sharp.”

“It’d help me focus on the right things. I think too much.”

“You do,” Auguste concedes. “What would you think about while you were… on your knees?”

Laurent has an answer ready on the tip of his tongue. “You, mostly. I like knowing you care enough about me to tell me what to do. I like knowing I did what you wanted, but not—even if I didn’t want to. Especially if I didn’t want to.”

Auguste has gone still beside him. “Have you ever forced—”

“No. It’s about… discipline. I think.”

“You think.”

Laurent’s eyes flicker to the ceiling.

“But you know I care about you, even if I’ve never told you to kneel for me,” Auguste says. “You have to know that.”

Laurent smiles, he can’t  _ not _ . “Yes, Auguste. I know that.”

There’s relief in Auguste’s face, but also determination. He sits up, forcing Laurent to do so as well, and says, “All right. Show me.”

“Show you what?”

“What you’d look like on your knees for me.”

Laurent feels himself tremble. “I—now?”

“Yes,” Auguste says, moving to sit on the edge of the mattress, feet firmly planted on the marble floor. He’s barefoot but does not seem to mind the cold tiles against his soles. “Should I cross my legs?” 

Laurent kicks the sheets away, making a mess on the bed. He then stands up in front of Auguste, his mouth so dry it’s a wonder he can speak at all, and locks eyes with his brother.

“Keep them spread,” Laurent says, and sinks to his knees.

The floor is very cold, despite the sunlight. Laurent doesn’t complain, too focused on getting comfortable in the space between Auguste’s legs. At some point, the cold sheds away, wilting slowly as though it never really existed in the first place.

Laurent is on his haunches, looking up at Auguste. Without giving it too much thought, he presses his cheek to Auguste’s right knee, resting his head there.

Auguste strokes his hair, running his fingers through it as if to get rid of the knots tossing and turning in bed has caused. He’s smiling. It’s a small smile, but it’s there. 

Laurent waits a moment, then asks, “Do you like it?”

“What isn’t there to like? You’re close to me, just lower than usual. You—” Auguste cuts himself off, frowning deeply. “We should start with a cushion first or your knees will hurt.”

“I’m fine.”

“The floor must be cold.”

“It isn’t,” Laurent says, nuzzling against Auguste’s thigh. Auguste’s hand stills in his hair. “It’s nice.”

“Won’t you get bored eventually? If I’m busy writing I won’t be able to give you my full attention.”

Laurent tries to keep his breathing even. Auguste’s skin is very warm, and it’s distracting him. “You’ll notice if I’m fidgeting.”

Auguste seems amused by that statement. “Will I?”

“Yes, and you’ll tell me to stop. And if I don’t, you’ll—” Laurent hesitates. “I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

“I won’t fuck you if you fidget too much.”

Laurent wants to whine. Instead, “You’re not that cruel, brother.”

Auguste has gone back to stroking his hair. “I suppose I’m not, but I can’t think of anything you’d hate more than that.”

“You could hit me.” At that, Auguste recoils instantly. The reaction is so physical Laurent hastens to say, “Not hard and not with your fists. Maybe a slap.”

“I said I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You wouldn’t be hurting me. A slap across the face has never killed anyone.”

“I said no.”

But now that Laurent can picture it in his head, he can’t stop. The heat in his belly spreads, his cock hardening despite being so close to the freezing tiles, and the words tumble out of his mouth before he can even think to stop them. “You could have me on your lap. You’d rub and spread my cheeks. And slap them. Your handprint would stay there for hours. You’d tell me—”

“No marks,” Auguste says, but he sounds a little out of breath. Still firm, but wavering. “Nothing that breaks the skin or leaves a bruise.”

Laurent closes his eyes, willing himself to be patient.

Time passes. He starts to doze off, trying to imagine himself under Auguste’s desk, trying to imagine what Auguste would like to do to him. 

He’s almost fully gone when Auguste says, “I’ll fuck you, but you won’t get to come.”

Oh.

“Yes,” Laurent says, choking on his own spit, “yes. I’ll—yes.”

Auguste’s smile is very soft. “But you won’t fidget, will you? You’ll be good.”

The last word makes Laurent dizzy. He says nothing.

“You’re sweet when you want to be,” Auguste says. His hand leaves Laurent’s hair, thumb brushing over Laurent’s slightly open mouth. For a second, Laurent thinks of sticking his tongue out to lick it. “Aren’t you?”

Laurent can only nod, rubbing his cheek against Auguste’s thigh. 

“All right,” Auguste says. He takes Laurent’s hands and starts pulling him up. “That’s enough for your first time. I don’t want your knees to ache.”

Now Laurent does roll his eyes. “They aren’t even red.”

“I also want to kiss you.”

Laurent lets Auguste pull him into his lap, both knees on the soft mattress, thighs on each side of Auguste’s waist. “Then kiss me.”

Auguste complies, smiling against Laurent’s mouth. The kiss is slow, but for the first time, Laurent can feel Auguste’s composure, how he’s holding back. The thought that he’s said something that will make Auguste retreat—like he has before, after their fight last spring, or when the Council asked him to look into marrying—makes Laurent ache.

“What is it?” Laurent says when they’ve pulled away, foreheads touching. “What didn’t you like?”

Auguste takes Laurent’s hand and guides it down. He’s hard, his cock almost throbbing in Laurent’s hand, but the pained expression he’s wearing makes Laurent wary. After a second, Auguste removes Laurent’s hand and looks away.

“I liked it enough,” Auguste says tightly. 

Confused, Laurent says, “I liked it too.”

Auguste presses a kiss to Laurent’s shoulder and offers no further explanation. The discomfort in Laurent only grows, turning his skin itchy.

“What’s wrong? If we both liked it, then why are you—”

“I shouldn’t,” Auguste says. He’s hiding his face in Laurent’s neck, and every word he speaks is a puff of warm air on Laurent’s skin. “I shouldn’t like seeing you like that. You weren’t born to grovel at my feet.”

Laurent spends the next few minutes carding his fingers through Auguste’s curls. There are too many things he wants to say, but only a few of them would make Auguste feel better. When he gets like this Laurent has learned to let him be for a moment, knowing it will eventually pass. 

_ Shouldn’t  _ used to be Auguste’s favorite word. Now it comes out of his mouth less often, but it’s like a cane he can’t let go of completely, always there for him to lean on when things between them become unsteady.

“I’m being unfair to you again,” Auguste says. “It’s obvious you want this, and I can’t give it to you. I can’t—”

“Do you think I’d want it with anyone else?”

Auguste lets out a shaky breath. “No, I know you wouldn’t.”

“The dress is harmless,” Laurent says. He can’t stand another second of Auguste’s self-pity. “What else would you have me wear? Some pets only walk around covered in paint.”

They both know Auguste is thinking about it again. The words aren’t spoken out loud, but Laurent hears them loud and clear for what feels like the fifth time that morning:  _ you’re not a pet. _

But Auguste surprises him by saying, “My crown. I’d like to see you wearing it. Even your silver circlet, the one from Arran, would be—I’d—” He stops to press a kiss to Laurent’s throat and regroup. One stuttered breath later he says, “On my throne.”

Laurent thinks of kneeling for Auguste in the throne room, naked and covered in paint. He is careful not to mention the first bit. 

“Will you fuck me in front of the whole court?” Laurent lets his hand wander lower and lower until it reaches the tip of Auguste’s cock. He’s still hard, despite the long pause in their conversation, and when Laurent closes his hand around him Auguste shudders. “I’ll sit on your lap, like this, except we’ll both keep our clothes on and I’ll be facing them. Do you think they’ll notice?” He stops stroking Auguste’s cock, tightening his grip at the base. Auguste tries to thrust into his hand. “I’ll sit very still when you’re done. I won’t spill a drop.”

Auguste touches Laurent’s tailbone, then squeezes one of his cheeks, kneading it as he did to Laurent’s thighs earlier. He presses his thumb to Laurent’s hole but does not move it, does not push it inside.

Laurent starts stroking him again while trying to fuck himself on Auguste’s finger. “And when they’re all gone, you can put your crown on my head. You’ll just lean back and I’ll ride—” Auguste starts to rub over his hole in tight circles, and Laurent’s breath hitches. 

“You’ll ride my cock?” Auguste supplies. 

Laurent pushes back, but Auguste’s thumb stays right where it is at his entrance. With enough oil, Laurent knows, it’d slip right in. “Yes, I’ll—they can watch like I watched Audin and his pet. But we won’t pay them attention, you’ll just— _ Auguste _ .”

Auguste has retrieved his hand. He lifts his head to look at Laurent, flushed and panting and needy. In the beginning, he’d pause all the time just to watch Laurent, as if he could not quite believe it was Laurent under him in bed and needed to confirm it with his own two eyes.

Perhaps that’s why he’s looking at Laurent now, because they’ve never done this sort of thing before. It feels like a fever dream, even to Laurent.

Laurent looks down and realizes he’s stopped moving his hand. 

“Is that something you want?” Auguste asks. The wariness hasn’t completely left him, but Laurent can see him cracking. “To be watched?”

“I don’t know.”

Auguste reaches for the oil they keep by the bed. He uncaps the vial and coats the fingers of his right hand with the liquid, carelessly enough that a few drops hit Laurent’s stomach. When he’s satisfied, Auguste throws the vial on the bed and turns his attention back to Laurent, as though this pause was nothing but the blink of an eye.

The pad of Auguste’s thumb brushes over Laurent’s hole again. His other hand is on Laurent’s waist to keep him from moving.

“You don’t know?”

“I—” Laurent swallows. He feels dizzy. “No,” he says after a second. Despite the slow teasing, he’s not so far gone that he can’t remember why they can’t be watched when they’re like this. “No, but I like…”

“Thinking about it,” Auguste finishes for him. His smile is blinding as he pushes his finger into Laurent, so slowly it borders on painful. “I suppose I like it too.”

Laurent breathes out. “Yes?” he says and starts moving. The ache in his thighs from the night before suddenly disappears, because nothing matters but forcing Auguste to move his hand. It isn’t long before he’s bouncing, softly, on Auguste’s lap.

“Yes,” Auguste says. “It’s a shame no one can see how good you are for me.” Laurent clenches tight around his finger, muscles growing taut at the praise. And of course, Auguste notices. He’s silent for only two beats of Laurent’s heart, and then says, almost experimentally, “You’re such a good boy.”

Laurent digs his nails into Auguste’s shoulders and bites his tongue hard enough to make himself bleed, just to keep himself from saying something he will most likely regret. He stills completely, Auguste’s finger almost slipping out of him.

Auguste kisses him. Without pulling away from Laurent’s mouth, he adds another finger. The stretch burns in that way Laurent likes.

“Why didn’t you tell me you wanted this before?” 

Laurent plays dumb. “You fucking me? I thought…” Auguste twists his fingers inside of him. “You knew.”

“Laurent.”

“I don’t—know.”

Auguste doesn’t push him. The kiss that follows isn’t as slow as the ones they’ve shared all morning. When Laurent opens his mouth, Auguste doesn’t pull away. He moves his hand faster and stops, and Laurent feels like crying. 

Auguste says, “Do your thighs still hurt?” 

“I—no.”

Smiling, Auguste leans back on the bed, using his free hand to support himself. He doesn’t say anything, but Laurent doesn’t need him to. Two of his fingers are still inside Laurent, rigid and very straight.

Laurent starts moving. He sinks down for the first time as Auguste says, “I like to think they won’t notice, not even Herode. You’ll squirm on my lap, and they’ll just ignore you.”

That’s how Laurent knows Auguste does not mean what he’s saying. Laurent has always sat close to Auguste during meetings and dinners, but never on the same chair. To sit on him, on the throne… The idea is outrageous enough to make Laurent’s cock weep.

Auguste says, “You’ll have to wear something loose unless you want them to see how hard sitting on me makes you. You won’t get to touch yourself or even come, but you don’t mind that, do you?”

Laurent’s rhythm changes. He’s rocking back and forth against Auguste’s fingers hard enough to hurt his brother’s wrist, and yet he can’t bring himself to slow down. Auguste’s grin tells him they’re both thinking the same thing: Laurent is too eager, too impatient, for anyone to watch him with Auguste and not  _ know _ .

“You’ll sit there through every meeting I have, all day long. And by the end, you’ll be so loose you won’t even need any oil to take me the next morning.”

Laurent presses his forehead to Auguste’s shoulder as he fucks himself. His cock grazes Auguste’s stomach, leaving a wet trail behind, and the friction is what has Laurent on edge.

“Please.”

Auguste kisses Laurent’s ear. “Do you want me to touch you?”

“No,” Laurent says, and surprises himself. He clenches, involuntarily, when Auguste adds a third finger. Oil is dripping down the inside of his thighs, staining the sheets. “I want—you’d let them—watch—”

“Maybe they’d join,” Auguste says, which is ridiculous coming from him. Auguste, who sulked for weeks over Laurent’s first suitor asking for the right to court him. Auguste, who never leaves Laurent alone with anyone except the Prince’s Guard. “You could take two cocks, I reckon.”

_ Three _ , Laurent thinks deliriously. There’s a wet spot on Auguste’s shoulder right next to Laurent’s mouth; he’s drooling.

Auguste crooks his fingers. “You’d have to make sure my crown doesn’t slip off your head. You’d be on your hands and knees, chin up so you could take one of them in your mouth—”

“Auguste.”

“—while I fuck you. Hard enough that with every thrust you’d have to push the crown into place again. You’d be so good, you’re always so good—”

Laurent spills between their bodies, some of the sticky and warm mess splashing his neck. Auguste keeps his fingers in, still moving them despite the painful grip Laurent’s hole has on them.

Boneless, Laurent can’t find it in him to complain when Auguste lies back on the bed, dragging Laurent down with him. They’re chest to chest, Laurent’s come on both their stomachs. Auguste doesn’t seem to mind, for he makes no move to find a towel to wipe Laurent down.

It takes Laurent some minutes to realize the thing digging into his thigh isn’t the vial of oil, but Auguste’s cock. He’s about to close a sluggish hand around it when Auguste beats him to it.

Even without Auguste asking, Laurent knows what he needs. He curls closer and watches Auguste stroke himself for a while, too relaxed to worry about feeling ashamed. 

“I’ll suck your cock,” Laurent says once his head has stopped throbbing, voice scratchy and drowsy, “while you write letters. I’ll hide under your desk in case anyone comes into the room. That’s what I’ll do when I get bored.”

Auguste buries his face in Laurent’s hair, muffling his reaction.

Laurent rubs at one of his nipples until it hardens. “If Jord walks in, I won’t stop. And when you can’t control yourself you’ll—you’ll have to hold me down and keep me there until he leaves.”

“You’ll choke,” Auguste says. “Jord will pretend he can’t hear you, he’ll act like he doesn’t know you’re there. Like he doesn’t know you’re a—a—”

“A whore,” Laurent says when it becomes apparent Auguste can’t say it out loud. He licks Auguste’s neck, his brother’s beard making his tongue itch. There’s drool all over his chin, but Auguste doesn’t complain when Laurent presses a sloppy kiss to his collarbone. “Your whore.”

Auguste kisses him through his orgasm, still mumbling into Laurent’s mouth, a mess of spit and unintelligible words. He’s shaking once it’s over, holding onto Laurent like a drowning man to a wooden board.

They lie in bed, trying to catch their breaths for a long moment. The sunlight is almost gone, but Laurent still feels warm and content, as he did when he’d just woken up. His mind is very quiet, thoughts too fuzzy and strange for him to focus on any in particular. 

Auguste kisses his forehead. “I like it,” he murmurs, “and you. Even if I—”

“I know,” Laurent says. He closes his eyes and pretends like the drying come on his body doesn’t bother him. “You should have fucked me.”

A kiss on Laurent’s cheek. Another on his pursed mouth. Auguste strokes his hair as he uses the rumpled sheet to clean Laurent between the legs. “We have all morning,” he says. “I’ll fuck you later. Slow. The way you like it.”

Laurent doesn’t say  _ I always like it with you _ . He doesn’t need to; Auguste already knows.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Lauguste Renaissance, bitches.


End file.
